The body that my body
made
Lies dead and trodden in the mud,
For even so hath God repaid
My tears my travail and my blood.
On alien ground they left my son,
The life he breathed, the child I bore,
And men applaud a victory won,
And shout the triumphs of the war.
I hold an inquest for
my son
Who fell unheeded in the strife
His manhood’s prime had scarce begun
He hardly knew the taste of life.
That energy of limb and brain,
That brave young beauty now defaced-
I question-was he born in vain?
To what strange purpose was this waste?
Straight as a sapling
tree he grew
And loved the land that gave him birth;
He traced her wandering streams, he knew
The tender secrets of her earth.
He loves her hills, her woods, her skies
Her changing seasons brought him joy,
And thus he grew and learned to prize
The birthright of an English boy.
The thrushes called
him forth at dawn
To roam some hidden forest track;
No hindering swamp or tangled thorn
Could turn that gay adventurer back.
He knew where first wild flowers were found,
Unchecked his footsteps wandered free,
An English lad, on English ground
Till twilight brought him home to me.
And so that other sons
might stand
Set free, beneath an English sky,
And learn to love their native land,
He thought it meet and right to die.
And since all things we cherish most
Are bought and held by sacrifice,
Our sons have counted not the cost,
Our sons have paid the utmost price.
So shall it be in future years
When time has swallowed up our pain,
And God has wiped away our tears,
And we have found our sons again,
That other little feet shall roam
Her ways, and far across the sea
Young lips shall speak of her as home,
Rejoicing in their liberty.
The south shall wake
anew to Spring,
O’er Surrey hills the sun will rise,
On Sussex downs the larks will sing
And peewits call from windy skies;
The heather bells on Devon moors
Shall scent the sail Atlantic gales
And tides will beat upon the shores
And echo round the coasts of Wales.
The beeches on the Cotswold
Hills
Will break in tender green again,
In Midland shires the daffodils
Will rustle under April rain.
By lock and willow tree and weir
Unruffled will the Severn glide,
From harvest fields shall listeners hear
The reapers sing at eventide.
And sheep will graze
on pasture ground,
And cottage windows beam with light,
Where little children gather round,
And ploughmen seek their homes at night.
Unguarded shall our cities stand,
Their walls and towers of ancient stone,
And men will look upon the land
And joy to call it all their own.
Yea, all their own -
their heritage –
Their birthright – so the charter runs;
Well ratified in every age
And sealed with blood of England’s sons.
The body that my body made
Lies dead, and beaten by the rain;
This was the price that must be paid,
The sacrifice was not in vain.